KID#1: Cy’? CY!? You ready?
(Young Cyrus abruptly nods with a seeming confidence.)
KID#1: Good. Sean, you ready, right?
SEAN: Yeah, I’m ready.
(The three wait outside of a local drug store just south of their own county. It’s 8:02pm in the late Fall season. No one can spot them in the old mobile across the street and across that street from the store. The owner of the shop is closing up. He appears to be in his early fifties. Wearing a white t-shirt, and an apron. An Italian? With hairy arms. His name should be "Pigiono" as it says above the entrance in blue and red faint painted lettering. The paint looks old, but not old enough that his name cannot be "Pigiono". The winds are heavy with a glare even at this hour. While tatters of rain, as cold as the winter itself, drain and hit at a spacey pace. The owner of the little shop is closing up shop for the night. Just going through his basic closing routine.)
KID#1: Alright, let’s go.
(Each of the three quickly hop out of the car simultaneously, all wearing hoods; except Cyrus. He knew he would not be spotted outside anyway as he slips on a black ski mask before approaching the front curb of the general store. The three jolt through the front door as the bell above it sounds. The owner is an Italian man; as the three get closer, you can now see the stubble of black and gray hairs around the brim of his face. Thinning, slick black hairs platted on the top of his head with a design in the back still set at your basic three-level clip shave.)
OLD MAN: What the hell!?
YOUNG CYRUS: Don’t make this difficult, old man!
RANDOM KID#1: Don’t make this difficult! Give up the money!
PIGIONO: I’m not giving up shit!
(The Kid abruptly pulls up a firearm. a dull colored one. Gray. No look of concern on his body language as his hood covers his emotion. Rather an appearance of eagerness. Young Cyrus looks on with jitters and anticipation, wide eyed. While Sean is hanging left behind The Kid. So quiet that if the situation got out of hand, Sean would still be there quietly.)
PIGIONO: … You stupid sonsa’-bitches, you think you can rob me!? Do you know who I am!? Well, do ya’!?
(The Kid still steady, Cyrus is a little shook, but also steady. So is Sean.)
YOUNG CYRUS: … We don’t want anymore problems just… give us the money.
(The Kid with the gun still steady. Pigiono takes a glare at Cyrus. He hears his words, but they do not reign much weight. He’s angry. So angry, that you cannot see the anger on the exterior, but see it fuming within.)
PIGIONO: You don’t know who I am.
(Pigiono starts to giggle.)
PIGIONO: My people are gonna have your bastard heads hanging on the wall of my shop when I’m through with you--
THE KID: Just hand over the damn money! Now! Or I swear I’ll blow your fucking head off!--
YOUNG CYRUS: Lance, relax.
(Sean finally breaks silence. Young Cyrus looks over at Sean and feels a sense of comfort that he’s not the only one that believes Lance has taken this all too far. But it wouldn't matter if Sean agreed because Cyrus knew this had gone too far in his own imagination. Along with a feeling of heat and uneasiness under his ski mask and heavy grey jacket. Though he should feel like ice with the weather quivering outside.)
YOUNG CYRUS: Lance.
LANCE: Shut up, Cyrus.
YOUNG CYRUS: Lance put the damn gun down!
PIGIONO: Listen to your boy, kid! You think you’re tough!? My boys are gonna have your family hanging up by their heads when we’re done with you!
LANCE: Sean, go take the money. Bust it up if you have ta’.
(Sean obliges to Lance’s wishes. Maybe he’s so startled by the gun, he’s under a control of fear from the weapon. He reaches over. Luckily, the register hadn’t been locked so Sean just pulls it open and takes all the cash he could. It seems to be a decent amount. Sean crosses back over the shop quickly. It didn’t take much time. As the shop is no bigger than the size of a laundromat.)
PIGIONO: Son of a bitch; you not takin’--
(Young Cyrus saw it coming. He had realized Lance was out of control on a power trip the moment he drew that gun. Young Cyrus looked on with a forlorn confusion. Why had he been placed in this situation? Lance, a criminal? His best friend? A killer? No way. Lance had only made a mistake; he is no sadistic killer.)
LANCE: We gotta go.
(Young Cyrus wastes no more time rushing out of the shop. Not for the car, but turned left and took off in an entirely different direction of the mobile across the way. Lance follows after out of the door. Cyrus was so far away at this point, that he could only hear the sheer loud grunts of Lance’s voice shouting at Sean.)
YOUNG CYRUS: (He always shouts at Sean! Why does he always shout?)
(He thought of that to take his mind off of the heavy situation.)
YOUNG CYRUS: Dad! Mom!.. Dad! Mom! Dad! Mom!.. Dad! Mom! Dad! Mom!.. Dad! Mom!
YOUNG CYRUS'S FATHER: Son, son -- what is it!? You okay?
(Then, Cyrus realized it had been exactly forty… forty-eight minutes since he took off from that place of death.)
YOUNG CYRUS: Dad.
(He lunges and grabs on to his father. His father not thinking twice before grappling him back. Holding on as if to never let go again. His face worried, but vacant. Steady and strong. They hang on to one another for roughly fifteen seconds, as a loud engine purring car comes out from Gernsheim. White lights. Young Cyrus heard it; his father felt it coming in his heart. He pushed Young Cyrus to the ground. The car stutters in front of the home. Out comes a pouring of fire. Rounds shutter up onto the porch. hitting the front door and the surrounding area on the stoop. One bullet enters the right brain of Young Cyrus’ father. Another through the right lung. Then another into the right side of the stomach. And then into the right quadriceps. Another into the left lung. Then the left side of the stomach. The left shoulder twice. Bullets fire for another two or three seconds and stop before he finally falls to the ground. And the dark car speeds off in a roar. Another few seconds pass before Young Cyrus lifts his head. He looks back over his left foot to see what he had already projected in his mind through the roar of gun fire. His father had indeed been shot to death. Young Cyrus reaches down with his left hand. his head ringing in despair. Blood shifting left to right in his body, giving him vision of disarray. His left fingers touch the left shoulder of his perished father. --
(Cyrus awakes from a nightmare wide-eyed and gasping for air. Halfway lifted off of his king size mattress. And places his left hand over the left side of his head. A sense of anxiety. Back into the night where he had blacked out from the crazed party, but now that early morning. The night started to shift into morning as Cyrus sat on his bed of his condominium.)